


Proof

by sageness



Category: Smallville
Genre: Canon - TV, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-18
Updated: 2005-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-03 15:45:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sageness/pseuds/sageness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lionel, Jonathan, and ... a thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Proof

**Author's Note:**

> Written for mshecubus, by request.

The pickup shuddered to a halt at the top of the west pasture closest to the house. Jonathan left the radio on the country western station so he could sing along while he worked, and started unloading hay from the trailer, making a mental note to get Clark to check the fuel lines for blockages when he got home from school. These bales were small, only thirty pounds or so apiece, but he didn't have the endurance he used to, and nothing like the strength Clark had had even as a little boy. It was weary work and it made the sun seem hotter than it was, even though it was only about eighty out.

He emptied the trailer of hay and hefted the pair of empty feed barrels into the trailer to move down to the south field. He was just yanking off his work gloves and scraping the muck from his boots on the wheel well of the truck when he saw him. He cursed and felt his blood pressure shoot up. As if having Lex always nosing around weren't bad enough.

"Nice day out," Lionel said by way of greeting.

Jonathan chewed over three different retorts of varying rudeness as he walked to meet him and settled on, "What do you want, Luthor?"

The bastard smirked at him. "Many things, Jonathan, many things."

And Jonathan didn't want to get all huffy as his old dad would've said, but Luthor set him off like nobody's business, always had. "What, are you looking for Martha? She went to town, won't be back til late. I can tell her you stopped by, though --"

"It irks you, doesn't it, that I might show up on your land looking for your wife."

Jonathan sucked on his teeth and didn't say anything. Knowing Luthor, he'd give himself away soon enough. Man loved to hear his own voice.

"She's a fine woman. She was most helpful to me as my executive assistant, really quite amazing."

"She's got many talents," Jonathan allowed.

"Ah, but that's what she said of you. And she did choose you, after all."

He frowned. What the hell was the man talking about? "Is there something you wanted?"

Luthor's eyes glittered and he flashed a grin, the one Martha always said reminded her of a shark bite. Luthor was moving toward him, drawing a cloth from his pants pocket. A white handkerchief. He mopped his own brow with it and Jonathan noticed he'd begun to sweat through his white dress shirt. Then Luthor had closed the distance and Jonathan was looking at his chest, his chin, his mischievous hazel eyes...and his handkerchief. "Here," Luthor said, pressing it into Jonathan's hand, "it's hot out here."

And before he knew it, his own goddamned hand had betrayed him and was using the thing to wipe the sweat and straw dust from his face. He was too confused to talk, his eyes still locked on Luthor's, but he finally muttered something like, "Uh, thanks," when his forehead and cheeks and neck were dry. And then that damned fool hand was pushing the rag back into Luthor's hand, touching his fingers to Luthor's of all things.

And Luthor grinned a tiny version of the sharky grin, but not so scary this time. This time it was -- something Jonathan didn't have any idea how to read. And Luthor lifted the cloth -- real linen, he saw -- and pressed it to Jonathan's chin and mouth and upper lip. "You missed," he said and Jonathan's voice had up and fled off to somewhere past Nebraska, or maybe California. What the hell was going on?

"I always respected a man who works with his hands," Luthor said and folded the handkerchief into a neat square. Then it was being pressed into his hand, the center of a handshake, and Jonathan was aware at once of how dirty, sweaty, and calloused his hands were. Luthor squeezed and his eyes drifted half closed as they shook hands. The heat was -- obscene. He was close enough to -- closer than any man had been to him since football.

"No need to mention my visit," Luthor said. His fingertips held the linen against Jonathan's palm, pressing in, commanding him to receive. His fingers closed around it of their own volition. Lionel nodded, his eyes flashing acknowledgment of some nameless thing. Then he turned away, hiked back to the fence, and was gone.

Jonathan stared after him, Garth Brooks warbling from the tinny speakers in his truck, until the dust trail from the lane met the highway and grabbed hold of the breeze toward town.


End file.
